


Round One

by 9091



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Kissing, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Season/Series 07, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9091/pseuds/9091
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is horny and bored, and abandoned houses don't have pay-per-view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Round One

“Two days,” Dean said pointedly, looking innocently at his breakfast: the styrofoam container of breakfast his brother hadn’t been able to finish seated neatly inside Dean’s empty one.

Sam glanced up warily, as well he should. “What?”

“Got two more days to kill.” Dean had a whole sausage patty speared on his plastic fork, turning it around to take bites out of each hemisphere. Sensing the precise moment when Sam would feign careful disinterest and look away, Dean put him full-on in the spotlight.

Sam’s throat shifted visibly with the resulting dry swallow of panic. But it was too late: After two days here, Dean’s boredom had reached critical mass. Sam had been identified, his coordinates recorded. The all-knowing eye of the search beacon homed in on his location. Dean’s eyes went heavily lidded, locked-on target, and Sam’s resolve to continue his research was about to become nothing more than a smoking crater in the ground.

“No,” Sam said firmly, shaking his head, pulling his laptop closer like a shield.

“‘No’, what?” Dean feigned innocence. “You don’t know what I’m ‘bout to say.”

“Dean, what you’re about to say can be seen from space.” Sam busied himself and tapped at the keyboard quickly. Dean figured it was a frantic web search for “local movie showtimes” or maybe a message to the internet at large that read: _Abort mission, hideout compromised, send reinforcements._

Interest in food trumped, Dean pushed the containers aside and leaned forward. Sam’s eyes swept apprehensively over the remaining pile of hash browns and back up to his face. “So tell me, what am I gonna say?”

Dialing for his best “Dean” -- which wasn't very good -- Sam half-growled, “Hey, hey Sam, hey, Sammy, look, bed” while wiggling his eyebrows at the beds in question, head tilting in blatant invitation. Dean watched as Sam took a moment to measure annoyance that one of Dean’s pillows was on the floor. In fact, if Sam had been paying attention, the pillow was the first sign: Sam had picked it up once already to put it back on the bed. And now it was on the floor again. Dean enjoyed seeing how many times he would pick it up. Here at the abandoned hunting cabin that was this week’s squat, Dean took his entertainment where he could get it.

He blinked at Sam, unbothered.  "I don't sound like that."

Sam pushed the laptop away, mimicking Dean’s move with the breakfast containers, leaning forward himself. “Dean, if you ever did something subtle, I would splash holy water on you.”

No, this was good, they were playing now, and Sam didn’t even realize it yet. But Dean knew what his smile could do and all 50 calibers of it were fired off in Sam’s direction.

Sam’s expression flattened into an intense glare as he pulled the laptop back and typed something else. Maybe this time it was “motels with hourly rates that have pay-per-view.” Dean liked to pretend sometimes that Sam had a blog or something: _Dear diary, he’s looking at me again like he wants to fold me in half, but I love knowledge._

Dean hadn’t even flinched, still leaning forward, Sam in his sights. Whether Sam realized it or not, he had brought this on himself: he looked fantastic. This was post-Satan time. Sam had slept without any interference, two solid days of good rest. This was a lull, and while it did a number on Dean’s patience, it was lookin’ good on Sammy. He was all curious, big-eyed and floppy-haired again. All legs and shoulders and flannel. That’s when Dean started to zero in on things that got them both in trouble: the line of Sam’s jaw, maybe, or his uncovered throat.

Absently reaching for the flask, Dean realized he’d kept it out in the Dodge Dart they’d stolen for a reason. He walked over to the jug of water they’d picked up and rinsed his mouth out at the rusted sink, almost in anticipation. Wiping his hand across his lips, he stared at the back of Sam's head until he was sure his little brother felt it. “Gimme five minutes to change your mind.”

“No."  Anxiety made Sam's voice just a tad higher and tighter than he probably intended.  “Eat your hash browns. Go shoot something. Go play with yourself. Anything.”

“Five little minutes, Sammy.” Dean’s voice had gone all smooth whiskey, a warm throaty laugh just under each word as he orbited around behind Sam, knowing from experience that it made all the muscles tense up in his neck. “You’re a grown man, right? Big and determined? What’s five minutes, huh?"  Dean put his palms on the table and leaned into him.  "That’s one MMA round. If you decide you don’t wanna take off your pants and scream my name, then you win.”

Sam’s glare went nuclear at the “scream my name” bit. Dean had hoped it would sound like “you don’t stand a chance” and was pleased to see that the shot had hit the mark.

“You’re on,” Sam declared, laptop thunking closed as he stood. Hastily, he added a condition: “But no laying down.”

“Done," Dean agreed indulgently. "Anything else? You want some kneepads, or some flowers, or I could put on some soft mu --"

Sam swallowed again, ignoring him. “No taking anything off.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Me or you?”

_“Either.”_

It was so hard not to laugh. “That it?”

“No hands,” Sam offered, as if he fully expected this one to get shot down.

“No hands?” Dean snorted. “All right, it’s more flag football than MMA at this point, but whatever, man. No hands it is.”

Sam was half backing away from Dean, probably without knowing it. “When does the five minutes start?”

Dean shrugged, smiling, still advancing slowly. “Your rules, Sammy, ring the bell.”

“Alright,” Sam said, jaw squared, chin out. “Go.”

As if he had all the time in the world, Dean kept advancing. Sam, who obviously thought the game would start where they stood, stepped back in confusion, glancing over his shoulder. When Sam saw that they were moving closer to the wall, it was too late to do anything about it.

Dean didn’t even bother to brace him on either side once he had his back against the wall. Let Sam think he had a good shot at escape, if it made him feel better. Instead, Dean leaned up and softly brushed his lips against Sam’s full lower one. Sam had his mouth set grimly, as if he was expecting something harder, and opened against Dean’s lips in surprise.

Pressed forcefully against him, in direct contrast to the soft teasing, Dean guided him down the wall just a little, until Sam’s mouth was level with his, until both Sam’s knees were tight against Dean’s legs, like he was hanging on. His eyes were closed now and Dean felt his heart hammering faster.

Dean kissed one corner of his mouth and would warmly work his way to the other corner, getting just far enough from Sam’s lips to watch them open soundlessly when they realized he was missing, his face blindly tracking, trying to find Dean. It was like this when Sam was 15, too, before all the vitamins kicked in and made him bigger.

Dean thought maybe Sam liked to pretend it was still them in the bathroom back then, pretending to be getting ready, to save time by using the bathroom at the same time, when it was just Dean putting him up on the counter, Sam’s legs flung desperately open around him, Dean’s lube-slicked fist stroking up and down fast, shushing against Sam’s mouth to keep him quiet as he got closer.

Dean figured it was only around the two-minute mark when Sam caved. He was slowly working his tongue in and out of Sam’s mouth, as close and as dirty a demonstration as he could manage for what was in Sam’s future.

Sam’s white flag, a near-whining moan of frustration, played directly inside Dean’s skull. As he drew back to see his handiwork, Sam leaned forward to get him back, pupils dilated, slack-jawed, hair all fucked up, so stiff inside his jeans that his zipper was starting to strain. Not much real difference in Sam’s face now than when he was 15.

“You win,” Sam gasped out, looking too turned on to be disappointed in his loss. “Help me get these off.”

Dean laughed huskily, resting his palms on the wall instead of where Sam wanted them. “I got three more minutes, dude.”

He grinned and leaned forward, kissing the curse off Sam’s lips as he slipped his tongue slowly back inside.


End file.
